“I’ll be glad to earn that to begin with,” said Martin.
“Then that’s a bargain. Don’t loiter.”
Martin took the basket on his arm, and as he went out he heard the baker mutter:
“How shall I get rid of the rest of this plaguey dough? The young ruffian!”
Scanning the list of customers given him, Martin was interested to find at the bottom the name of Mr. Slocum, at the goldsmith’s shop in Cheapside. The idea of meeting his old master was not at all pleasant, but he reflected that if he went to the back entrance, from a yard leading out of Bow Lane, he would probably avoid such a meeting, and see only the housekeeper or the cook, who had both been on friendly terms with him.
“I’m glad it’s the last on the list,” he thought. “But I wish I hadn’t to go there at all. What strange fate is always bringing me into contact with old Slocum? I don’t like it. There’s something mysterious about it.”
And it was with a strange feeling of misgiving that he trudged on with his heavy load of bread.